Page:The complete poetical works and letters of John Keats, 1899.djvu/278

242 And should have been most happy,—but I saw

Too far into the sea, where every maw

The greater on the less feeds evermore.—

But I saw too distinct into the core

Of an eternal fierce destruction,

And so from happiness I far was gone.

Still am I sick of it, and tho' to-day,

I 've gather'd young spring-leaves, and flowers gay

Of periwinkle and wild strawberry,

Still do I that most fierce destruction see,—

The Shark at savage prey,—the Hawk at pounce,—

The gentle Robin, like a Pard or Ounce,

Ravening a worm,—Away, ye horrid moods!

Moods of one's mind! You know I hate them well.

You know I 'd sooner be a clapping Bell

To some Kamschatkan Missionary Church,

Than with these horrid moods be left i' the lurch.

Burgundy, Claret, and Port,

Away with old Hock and Madeira,

Too earthly ye are for my sport;

There 's a beverage brighter and clearer.

Instead of a pitiful rummer,

My wine overbrims a whole summer;

My bowl is the sky,

And I drink at my eye,

Till I feel in the brain

A Delphian pain—

Then follow, my Caius! then follow:

On the green of the hill

We will drink our fill

Of golden sunshine,

Till our brains intertwine

With the glory and grace of Apollo!

God of the Meridian,

And of the East and West,

To thee my soul is flown,

And my body is earthward press'd.—

It is an awful mission,

A terrible division;

And leaves a gulf austere

To be fill'd with worldly fear.

Aye, when the soul is fled

To high above our head,

Affrighted do we gaze

After its airy maze,

As doth a mother wild,

When her young infant child

Is in an eagle's claws—

And is not this the cause

Of madness?—God of Song,

Thou bearest me along

Through sights I scarce can bear:

O let me, let me share

With the hot lyre and thee,

The staid Philosophy.

Temper my lonely hours,

And let me see thy bowers

More unalarm'd!

all the summer could I stay,

For there 's Bishop's teign

And King's teign

And Coomb at the clear teign head—

Where close by the stream

You may have your cream

All spread upon barley bread.

There 's arch Brook

And there 's larch Brook

Both turning many a mill;

And cooling the drouth

Of the salmon's mouth

And fattening his silver gill.

There is Wild wood,

A Mild hood

To the sheep on the lea o' the down,

Where the golden furze

With its green, thin spurs,

Doth catch at the maiden's gown.

There is Newton marsh

With its spear grass harsh—

A pleasant summer level

Where the maidens sweet

Of the Market Street,

Do meet in the dusk to revel.

There 's the Barton rich

With dyke and ditch

And hedge for the thrush to live in;

And the hollow tree

For the buzzing bee,

And a bank for the wasp to hive in.